Of course it should come as absolutely no surprise whatsoever — that no matter how genuinely awful 50 Shades of Grey was (I endured it in the remarkably empty Cinerama Dome last Tuesday afternoon) — because the LAXpress is legendary for being the Alternative Adult-themed publication in Southern California, I would have absolutely no choice whatsoever than to dedicate an entire Cinema Seen page to the somnambulant celluloid slug.

Yeah…the highly publicized, apparently anxiously awaited for (by those who titter and swoon easily) film version of E. L. James’ "acceptably dirty book for clean coffee tables" is a truly unendurable peek at the torturously tedious world of wanna-BDSMers.

Personally, if I want to play games — they aren’t going to be of a sexual nature — and they are going to take place outside, on unforgiving asphalt and cement, stain creating grass and mud, or in the energy taxing elements of sand.

Bedrooms are for fucking. And for sleeping. Usually one right after the other!

So I’m all kinds of "square" when it comes to sexual matters…and perhaps I’m way too straight for my own good, but I’ve always felt that those men who need to indulge in "role-playing" to make (and/or lamely "master") their sexual experiences work, are a rather tragic lot who get all-puffed-up like bloated toads, and look upon the women that they "control" as little more than dispensable lily pads.

Owning someone has never been my idea of pleasure, because then I would have to be responsible for feeding them, as I was quick to remind Viper when she wanted to make the late Charli Waters our sex slave, and I replied that we already had two cats.

Earlier in our relationship, the remarkable like/love/lust of my life once queried, "When are you going to beat me up?" to which I my hands out in front of her and crunched them a few times so that she could hear them sounding like a couple of bowls of Rice Krispy’s, while chuckling, "If I break these on you, I wouldn’t be able to play football for a while."

"50 Shades of Grey" director Sam Taylor Johnson creates all the sexual tension of a fistful of busted condoms, and renders being kinky into something akin to a litter of Siamese cat tails.

Besides the viewer, the real victims here are the two barely animated, almost completely naked (at times, although I did notice a few "stunt" doubles in the end credits), performers.

As the supposed dominant, Jamie Dornan is as about as mysterious as a glass bowl of grape Jell-O.

And while Dakota Johnson does winsome well enough, she is totally unconvincing as Dornan’s sex toy. In fact, there are a few moments way too early on, when she appears to be downright bored while woefully trying to be submissive. And finally, she looks like she is on the verge of pouncing on the truly wimpy tragedy that Dornan has allowed his character to become.

Blessed with a series of eccentrically erotic adventures during my early (incredibly innocent) sexual growth period, one of my female mentors once snarled, "You men are really pathetic. You are spit out into the world from between our legs…and then you spend a great portion of your life trying to crawl back between them as many times as you can."

Somewhat knocked off my tenuous pillar of male pride for a few moments, I looked up from between her legs, and snapped, "Well, the only difference between a woman and a wallet is that you’ve got to turn a woman upside down to put money in them."

And then, after being nudged with just enough aroused nuance to strongly suggest that no more communication would be tolerated, I immediately returned to the business at hand…and mouth!

Unfortunately, for all involved — on both sides of the screen — there is virtually no business at all to get involved with during the first go-round of "50 Shades of Grey."

And, lamentably, two more installments loom on the not-so-distant horizon.

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